


All the Voices in Your Head

by Atisenia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Mind Palace, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atisenia/pseuds/Atisenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a case that may or may not involve an angry ghost, John finds himself in a place he never thought he’d have a chance to visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock's [Challenge 11](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/79301605333/challenge-11-create-a-story-in-a-fantastical).  
> Oh wow, I did it! But that was close. I have the entire thing planned, and as you can see from the chapter count, there will be two more parts.  
> It's set sometime after the third series. I didn't want to dwell on the Mary situation, I just wanted to get John back to Baker Street for this. It got slightly out of control as it is anyway, starting as a silly little idea that ended up wrapped in a case fic.  
> English is still not my first language so, you know, I try but I don't always succeed.;)

John settled back into their Baker Street domestic routine with relative ease. It was comforting in a way it had no right to be after everything that had happened in the last couple of years, and especially in the recent months. It wasn't perfect, with the ghosts still haunting them, but in all the chaos around them the familiar dynamic of Baker Street was an anchor, one both Sherlock and John needed.

So John didn't really argue when Sherlock sent him out to buy what seemed to be ingredients for homemade burgers but were surely meant for some devious experiment. Though with the fridge full of body parts John couldn't imagine why Sherlock would want to experiment on actual food.

The walk helped him clear his mind and he hummed while taking the stairs up, two at the time.

"They didn't have the brand of mustard you wanted. Are you sure it's even available for mere mortals or do we have to raid Mycroft’s supplies?” he called from the landing. “I bought you another… one…”

He ended on an uneven note when he saw not one but two figures with curly hair bent over the microscope.

“Oh, hello,” John said and put the shopping on the table, careful not to mix chemicals with food. He frowned at their guest.

“Hello, Dr. Watson!” Archie said without lifting his eyes from the microscope.

“Archie informed me that the type of mustard is entirely irrelevant when it comes to burgers,” Sherlock said and sent him a faint smile.

“Oh, so you _are_ making burgers. I’ve been wondering,” John said trying to squeeze the milk between eggs and beans on his only safe food shelf — as far away from the blood bags as possible.

“Yes, you can get right on it,” Sherlock said, earning himself a glare.

“I’m not your bloody servant, you know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said smugly and John gave up. “I thought you weren’t supposed to curse in front of children.”

“Then don’t give me reasons,” John muttered but searched for the frying pan anyway. “You’re probably not even hungry.”

“I am,” Archie said and looked at John for the first time with a grin.

“Right.”

John left the meat frying and preheated the burger buns in the microwave, making sure first it was free of any human parts. Then he started slicing an onion, keeping an eye on Sherlock and Archie.

“No, you need to look for patterns,” Sherlock said with no trace of his usual impatience. “Patterns help you see irregularities and make it easier to draw conclusions.”

“Ok, so that other sample didn’t have these splashes of colour on it.”

“Yes, go on. What colour is this?”

“Um... well it’s white with dark blue dots. Is it important?”

“It could be. If you have a suspect who claims he didn’t kill his assistant with a fountain pen but then you find discolouration on his shirt that seems like ink both in colour and shape of the splatter, what can you deduce from it?”

“That he’s probably lying,” Archie said and frowned. “But wouldn’t he want to get rid of the shirt so it can’t be used as evidence?”

Sherlock grinned at him.

“Yes, although some people are just idiots. But even if they throw it out, you can always find a way to retrieve it.”

“You mean going through their rubbish?”

“I mean finding alternative ways of acquiring things that would otherwise be lost and unusable as evidence.”

“He means going through their rubbish,” John said and put the plate of burgers in front of them on the table, still very far away from any suspicious items. Then he sat down. “Our first case together he went searching for a pink suitcase and found it in a skip. It helped us catch the killer.”

“Yes, well, he rather insisted on revealing himself anyway,” Sherlock said.

“Revealing himself to you, you mean,” John said with a small smile. “A word of advice, Archie. Don’t go after serial killers alone, without telling anyone.”

“He’s not going after serial killers,” Sherlock protested at once.

“I might though,” Archie said and both Sherlock and John looked at him with matching frowns. “Not now, obviously.” He rolled his eyes. “But, you know, if I ever decide to be a detective then I might.” He took a large bite of one of the burgers and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s not bad,” he said.

John snorted.

“High praise. Thanks!”

“No, it’s just that Mr Holmes said—”

“Never mind that!”

“No, but you said—”

“John, tea?”

There was something final and rather urgent in Sherlock’s voice, so John shrugged and went to put the kettle on, ignoring the mighty glare Sherlock was sending in Archie’s direction. The boy ate his burger without so much as a blink of discomfort.

Hushed voices proved themselves unrecognizable over the hum of the kettle and John just shook his head with a fond smile. Apparently Sherlock was complaining about him to children now.

John watched them as they continued their search for patterns in fabric or some other experiment that involved the microscope. Sherlock was surprisingly good with Archie. John had never seen them together before, apart from the wedding (and he wasn’t thinking about that now). He should have known that Sherlock would have a way with children. The thought caused an unwanted pang in his chest.

His daughter could have been sitting there beside Sherlock and eating a burger John had made for her. She’d love Sherlock and Sherlock would certainly adore her and show her all the inappropriate things parents shouldn’t teach their children.

Before his good mood from earlier could dissipate entirely, the doorbell rang (in the fridge but still working). The kettle had clicked off some time ago without John noticing. He shook his head and went to open the door.

“John,” Greg greeted him. “Is he home? We could really use his help.”

  
“Yeah, he’s home.” The term rolled easily off John’s tongue. “He’s in the middle of an experiment though. I’m not sure… well, come and see.”

 

John let Greg in and lingered by the door, trying to clear his mind. He watched Greg march up the stairs and took a deep breath. He nodded to himself and followed, only to nearly run into the shocked inspector in the living room.

“You see, Archie, that’s why they need my help,” Sherlock said and looked up from the microscope. “What’s the unsolvable problem of the day, Inspector?”

Greg groaned and addressed Sherlock with his usual exasperation.

“Ghosts,” he said to the room’s general consternation.

Well, almost general.

“Cool!” Archie said and beamed at Greg. “Can I come?”

“Absolutely not. Sherlock, have you been showing this poor kid classified files as well as body parts?”

“They’re studying fabric patterns,” John said and sat down on the kitchen chair, trying not to think about it as picking sides.

But, going by the glare he received from Lestrade in return, he might not have been entirely successful.

“So... What is this ghost nonsense?” Sherlock asked, turning to look at Greg. John noticed he still kept an eye on Archie and smiled to himself.

Lestrade sighed and helped himself to a chair. He looked exhausted and annoyed, which was a common enough combination on him.

“There’s been a murder,” he said after a while. “A triple murder to be exact. Some people on my team think…” He trailed off and pursed his lips. Sherlock sent him an impatient glare.

“That’s debatable,” he said.

“Yes, well, if everybody was a genius, then I wouldn’t need your help, would I?” Greg snapped at him and took a deep breath. “They think the murderer is a ghost.”

“And why would they think that?” Sherlock asked, contempt clear in his voice.

Greg opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking warily at Archie who listened to their conversation with bright eyes and entirely too much enthusiasm.

“You know what?” Lestrade said standing up. “Why don’t you go to the scene and see for yourself?”

“I’m a little busy here, Inspector!” Sherlock glanced pointedly at Archie who tried very hard not to look disappointed. “I’m not going anywhere for anything less than an eight, especially if the only problem is your team’s incompetence.”

“Sherlock,” John said, glancing at Greg, “maybe we should keep it to ourselves.”

“Archie’s going to find out about it from the papers anyway. I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

John looked at Lestrade who gave him a pleading look.

“Press facts now, crime scene later?” he suggested and Greg let out a sigh of relief.

“Fine,” he said but didn’t sit down again. “There was a triple murder during what looks like a ghost summoning session. We have angry messages written in blood, and we found fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

“Then I don’t—“

“They belong to one of the victim’s dead brother,” Lestrade said and looked pointedly at Sherlock who simply grinned.

“Marvellous,” he said and turned to face Archie. “Sorry, we need to reschedule.”

“But I want to go!” Archie said and pouted. He looked disturbingly like Sherlock whenever John took away his nicotine patches.

“I know. But the law can be stupid like that.” The boy didn’t look placated at all, even if Sherlock’s tone was surprisingly gentle. “I’ll show you later,” Sherlock said.

“No, you won’t!” Greg crossed his arms and glared daggers at him.

“But—” Archie started.

“It’s not like I’ll show him photos, Lestrade,” Sherlock said and rolled his eyes.

“You showed me the—“ That was all Archie could say before Sherlock’s hand covered his mouth. Beheadings was probably not the only village they’d been to.

“Inspector?” Sherlock said, looking at Greg expectantly. Lestrade sighed and gave up.

“I’ll drive the kid home, you two can grab a taxi and we’ll meet at the scene,” he said and gave them the address.

“’High Spirits?’” John said, mildly amused by the name of the club.

“Yeah,” Greg said and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Archie, let’s go.”

“Can we drive with the siren on?”

Greg hesitated, clearly unwilling to comply and bend police rules for a child.

“We’ll see,” he said. “Come on then.”

They went out the door and, sure enough, not long after that a police siren went on.

John looked at Sherlock and found his own amusement mirrored on his friend’s face. They shared a moment and then nearly simultaneously started putting their coats on. They were out in search of a taxi in a heartbeat.

~*~

High Spirits didn’t live up to its name when they arrived at the scene. It was full of people, true, and it tried to look like business was as good as usual, but there was a grim sort of determination about it. Still though, before they could even cross the main room, John had been approached by three different fortune tellers, a guy who claimed he needed an amulet that repelled danger (as if!) and two mediums fixated on getting him in contact with his dead parents (and what a bad idea _that_ would be). Sherlock ignored all of them, probably too fixated on the case already to even notice them.

“Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said when they finally approached the door marked with the police tape. John hadn’t even notice her. He was too busy trying to take his hand away from the firm grip of a woman who claimed he should be long dead. He sighed.

“Well, well, it seems to me that you’ve finally found yourself a place you fit in,” Sally said and actually smiled at Sherlock. “Being back from the dead and all, you can as well be a ghost we’re looking for.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said. “May I?”

“Help yourself.” Sally shrugged and stepped away from the door. “And send my regards to the world of the dead.”

John saw Sherlock roll his eyes and followed him to the scene.

The murder took place in a small side room and John let out a breath of relief when he found it free of incense and dimly lit candles. The candles were there but the forensic team decided the good old electricity would be better served for their investigation.

Sherlock frowned and came closer to the centre of the room where three bodies were slumped over a table. A man, probably the medium summoning the ghost, sat on one side of the table; a woman and a man on the other. They had all been stabbed but there was no knife in sight, though John suspected the bloody stain on the table marked the place where it was found.

“Any theories?” John asked, frowning at the medium.

“Several,” Sherlock said and looked at John. “I don’t have sufficient data to form anything conclusive yet.”

“Right.” John absently touched the back of the medium’s exposed arm and frowned. “Were the bodies moved?” he asked with a frown.

“I should think so,” Sherlock said. “It would be extremely idiotic to examine them without at least finding the wounds that killed them. You can tell they’re slightly away from their previous positions by the blood on the table that—”

“No, I mean…” John continued his examination and nodded to himself. “The discolouration—” 

"Have you got anything for me?" Lestrade asked, suddenly materializing behind them and interrupting John's line of thought.

“I was just in the process of finding out, Inspector,” Sherlock snapped.

“Did you have any problems with Archie?” John asked, opening his coat and tugging at his jumper.

“No, he’s a good kid, if a bit too curious for his own good.” Greg looked pointedly at Sherlock who scoffed at him.

“So that’s a crime now too?” he said looking at the angry messages written in blood on the walls and on the floor.

"What do you already have?" John interrupted before Greg and Sherlock could start an unnecessary discussion.

Greg looked at him with his mouth already half open but closed it and nodded. He started talking while Sherlock bent over to better examine the bodies.

"The messages were written with the blood of all the victims. We ran the tests twice. They were all killed with the same weapon which we identified and secured with no problems since it was lying on the table. We identified the prints on the handle as belonging to the dead woman's brother, Robert Summers. There are no other prints on the knife, so it would be a pretty straightforward case if not for the fact that Mr Summers has been dead for over a month."

"So you think someone wants to frame a dead person for this murder and get away with it?" John asked.

"Or it’s a ghost seeking revenge." Greg grimaced and shook his head. "I guess this place can be slightly suggestive."

"No, your team is just full of superstitious morons," Sherlock said, straightening his coat. John idly wondered if he could get a heatstroke in the bloody thing. “There’s a partial footprint by the back door. I assume you’ve identified the shoe?”

“What are you on about?” Greg asked, already looking around. Sherlock huffed and went to examine the print with both John and Greg trailing behind him.

“Maybe someone from forensics left it,” John said, frowning at the hidden trail. How in the hell had Sherlock managed to notice it?

“No, they always wear their ridiculous suits and it’s a very distinctive print.” Sherlock shook his head and crouched beside the bloody trail. “You couldn’t have made it wearing protective footwear. The blood is already dry, so it also wouldn’t be this intense.”

“So, not a ghost then?” Greg said while Sherlock started taking photos.

“No,” Sherlock drawled and took out his magnifying glass. He didn’t volunteer any other information and John shrugged at Greg’s silent question.

“So they’re framing a dead person?” John asked after a while, finally giving up and taking his coat off.

“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock said and straightened in one swift move. He looked at John and hesitated a second before saying, “we’ve seen rather a lot of ghosts that turned out to not be what they’ve seemed.”

John clenched his fist over his coat and took a deep breath.

“Do you count yourself as one?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

Sherlock looked at him for what seemed like a very long time.

“I don’t know. Do you?” he said quietly.

“Yes,” John said. “Yes, I do.”

Sherlock looked at him for some time more and John held his gaze. Finally, Greg cleared his throat rather loudly and Sherlock averted his eyes.

“Two of the victims,” he began talking, already on his way back to the bodies, “the medium and the woman don’t display signs of a struggle, so they were probably taken by surprise and can’t tell us very much about the assailant. The husband though is more intriguing.” All three of them looked at the slumped bloody figure. “He has defensive wounds on his arms and it’s possible there are fresh bruises on his body somewhere not covered by livor mortis.”

There were indeed smaller cuts on the man’s arms and hands and a rather large lump on his temple.

“The cut’s too clean if the man struggled,” John said. “You think he was stabbed while unconscious?”

“It’s certainly possible. Have you checked for DNA under his nails?”

“No, I think the pleasure’s all yours,” Greg said with a sigh.

“How do you function when I’m not around to do your job?” Sherlock sneered and started collecting samples using the kit he extracted from one of his coat pockets.

John glanced at Greg, saw his patience levels drop drastically and hurried to prevent a disaster.

“Do you always carry evidence bags on you?” he asked, watching Sherlock work.

“You know I do.” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“Yeah. Don’t think I don’t know whose hair you studied with so much attention last week.” Sherlock looked at him sharply. “What? I notice things too.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said and smiled at him brightly, which caused a warm feeling in John’s chest.

“Right,” Greg said, sounding amused. “Something else you want to share with us?”

John frowned at the knowing look he got from the inspector but decided to drop the subject. God knew he could wear all the t-shirts in the world and the message still wouldn’t deliver.

“There’s an unusual blood splatter on his shirt sleeve. It’s the wrong angle for the main wound to cause it, especially if he was unconscious when he was stabbed. It could be from the defensive wounds on his hands but there’s a possibility he managed to hurt the murderer. Only I don’t see— Ah!”

Sherlock was suddenly in motion, staring intently at the edge of the tea cupboard in the corner of the room.

“Yes, of course!” he smiled and reached for another evidence bag.

“Care to explain, Sherlock?” John asked, only a bit irritated.

“The blood! He managed to bleed his assassin when they struggled,” Sherlock said and gave the bags to Greg with a self-satisfied smile. “Gareth, send it for analysis.”

“Is there even a point to reminding you my name is actually Greg?”

“Oh, please! There’s only space for important things in my mind palace.”

“Right, thanks.”

“But you do know Greg’s name starts with a _G_ ,” John said, with a sudden idea. “Did you just shorten it to have more space and then try to guess it every time you need it?”

 Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible.

"You do, don't you?" John said with an amused half-smile. "I swear to God, Sherlock! The things you decide to keep in that mind palace of yours! It must be a terrifying place full of... dead bodies, murder weapons and tobacco ash." Sherlock shoved his hands defensively into his pockets. John grinned at him. "I'd like to see it. Must be brilliant."

Sherlock sent him a small, disbelieving smile . "You wouldn't like it," he muttered. John raised his brows at him.

"Okay, you two," Greg said, trying very poorly to hide his amusement. John rolled his eyes and Sherlock looked clueless as always. "I'll send the samples to the lab and leave you to sort this out."

He shook his head at them and left. John sighed and turned to Sherlock who was crouching by the footprint again.

"What are you doing?" he asked coming closer.

"What does it look like? I'm taking samples."

The ‘obviously’ hung heavily in the air.

"Right. And you couldn't do that with Lestrade here because...?"

"This is faster," Sherlock said and proceeded to ruin the wooden floor by scraping it.

"What about the samples you've just sent to the lab?"

“I just need them to confirm one theory,” Sherlock said and examined the back door. “This here may actually lead us to the killer.”

“The door?” John asked and frowned.

Sherlock looked at him as if he suddenly turned into that idiot he claimed not to be.

“No. The door is just how he escaped without being seen. Do keep up.”

“Right,” John said and he did feel like an idiot when he joined the dots. “You mean the footprint.”

“Of course I mean the footprint,” Sherlock said and sent him a radiant smile which John felt compelled to return. “Come on, John, we have things to do.”

They left the room and entered the main zone again.

The space seemed overly crowded and already more animated without the obvious presence of the police. John noticed a man reading from what looked like a rabbit's intestines and thought with amusement about what Sherlock might say to him. He turned to share the observation with his friend but found himself on the receiving end of a woman’s stare.

"Excuse me," he said, looking for dark curls and turned up collar.

"You're haunted," the woman said in a deep, rough voice, damaged by the cigarette smoke.

"Um... no." He tried to go around her but she blocked his way. "Do you mind?" he asked, annoyed.

She showed him a small amulet pending from a simple strap.

"For the ghosts," she said and extended her hand.

"No, really, I'm not haunted," he said and considered how much trouble he'd be in if he shoved her out of the way.

"Take it," she insisted and shook her hand.

John finally spotted Sherlock by the front door. If he didn't hurry, the git would take the first taxi that passed by and leave him to figure out where he'd gone to.

"I don't want to buy your amulet," John said firmly and tried once again to go around her. She didn't let him. "I really need to go."

"Take it," she said. "You need it. I don't charge for things you need."

John took a deep breath.

"Fine. Give it here."

He took the amulet with more force that was needed and would have shoved the woman away after all if she hadn't disappeared in the crowd before he got the chance to do it.

He growled and hurried after Sherlock. He saw him getting into a taxi and slipped in before it could pull away.

"Really, John, an amulet?" Sherlock sneered. John didn't feel like explaining himself, so he just shrugged.

Only after several minutes of silence and Sherlock attacking his phone, John realized they weren’t going to St. Bart’s or Baker Street, as he’d assumed.

“Um… Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Where are we going?”

“Oh, haven’t I said?” He gave John a very used card.

“You actually still haven’t said anything.” John frowned at the card and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “Where did you get it?”

“Dead woman’s pocket.”

“Okay…” John turned the card in his hand. “No, I still don’t understand. It’s the High Spirits’ address.”

“Brilliant deduction, John.”

“But we’ve just been there.”

“Then what are the chances that we’re going back there now?”

“Knowing you, pretty high,” John muttered. Sherlock gave him a quick disapproving look which John promptly ignored.

He looked at the card and felt how soft it’d become. The name was barely legible but still recognizable. And the phone number in the corner had been rewritten several times.

“Hang on!” John said. “Isn’t it the dead medium’s name?”

“You’re so very perceptive. I could retire now that the safety of London is in competent hands.”

“Ha bloody ha.” John looked at the card some more. “So it was a planned murder then?”

Sherlock finally left his phone alone for long enough to actually look at him. His lips looked like they were trying very hard not to form a smile.

“Why?”

“Well…” John cleared his throat. Now that he had Sherlock’s attention, he wasn’t sure he wanted to share his theory. He could never get all the details down as well as Sherlock could, and he always felt stupid after his revelations turned out to only scratch the surface. “The… the card is very… um… used which would suggest that they had it in their hands often, and the number’s been rewritten, so they wanted to keep it. It can’t be a coincidence that they’ve been murdered after coming to see this particular medium. Can it?”

Sherlock blinked at him and smiled, his eyes looking bright and focused entirely on John.

“No,” he said. “That indeed seems like too much coincidence for it to be any less than deliberate.”

“Yeah, that made no sense at all,” John said and surprised a chuckle out of Sherlock. “So we’re going to see their home?”

“No.” Sherlock looked at him with amusement and promptly turned his attention back to his phone.

John sighed and resigned himself to a silent cab ride. He’d find out where they were going eventually anyway and if Sherlock wanted to be all mysterious again, then John could humour him.

They stopped soon after that in a quiet residential area. Sherlock hopped out of the taxi even before it could fully stop and left John to pay for them both, as usual. John grudgingly did so and hurried after his friend who, for once, waited for him on the pavement, even though his bouncing feet betrayed his impatience.

Sherlock marched up to the front door of the nearest house, leaving John to follow.

“Good evening, Mrs Summers,” he said, employing his best charm-the-witness voice. “So sorry for your loss. May we come in and talk?”

“I—” she hesitated, looking nervously from Sherlock to John and back. “Who are you?”

“We’re with the police,” John said, quickly catching up. “Can we talk about what happened?”

“Well, I—” She scanned the area behind them as if looking for something that wasn’t there. She sighed. “Ok, come in.”

She led them into a small living room where they made their formal introductions and  went to make tea leaving them sitting on the sofa.

“And you really couldn’t have told me we were going to see Robert Summers’s wife?” John asked quietly and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“I could but you were doing so well, I didn’t want to spoil it for you.”

“You’re such a prat,” John said with a small smile. “So what are we doing here now? You think she could be framing her husband somehow? Why?”

“Stay close and maybe you’ll figure it all out for me,” Sherlock said and smirked.

“I really do hate you sometimes.”

The arrival of Mrs Summers saved John from Sherlock’s reply. They sat in silence for a while drinking their tea, which didn’t seem to abate the woman’s nervousness.

“Do you think he’ll come for me?” she asked.

John looked at her, surprised, and then at Sherlock, seeking explanation. When none came, he turned back to Mrs Summers.

“Sorry?”

“That’s why you’re here, right? To protect me from him? His ghost?” She looked uncertain all of the sudden and started flexing her fingers on her knees.

“We’re not but it’s rather interesting you think so,” Sherlock said and leaned forward on the sofa, his gaze focused entirely on Mrs Summers. “Would you care to elaborate?”

The woman looked at John as if seeking help. He sighed and resigned himself to be the buffer between the witness and Sherlock yet again.

“Do you think you’re in danger?” he asked gently. Mrs Summers relaxed slightly.

“And you don’t?” She picked the envelope that had been lying on the table and started turning it in her hands. “He killed Lizzy and Ben.”

“And you think now he’s coming to kill _you_?” Sherlock asked, his eyes on the envelope. John looked at it as well but couldn’t deduce anything from it.

Mrs Summers stopped turning the envelope and frowned at Sherlock.

“Yes,” she said slowly and then asked, “are you really with the police?”

“Are you going somewhere, Mrs Summers?” Sherlock asked pleasantly, as if he was just making conversation.

“I—” She looked nervously at the envelope and, sure enough, John could see a fragment of a plane ticket through the opening. “Well, I’m hardly going to stay here and wait for him to come and get me.”

“And have you ever done anything to your husband that would warrant his wanting to kill you?”

John deliberated stepping on his foot in an attempt to convey that he should really be more delicate about it. Then he remembered the woman may be the actual killer and kept his feet still.

“No,” Mrs Summers said. “But neither did Lizzy and Ben. I don’t understand this. We always got on so well and now... Can you blame me for wanting to get away for a while?”

“I guess not,” Sherlock said and stood up. “We won’t be troubling you anymore.”

He was out of the house in a blink of an eye, his coat billowing after him like a superhero cape.

Mrs Summers walked John to the door and stood on the doorstep, sending cautious glances towards Sherlock. He was already writing something on his phone again.

“Sorry about him,” John said, turning to Mrs Summers with his best apologetic expression. “He can be a little...”

“Rude?”

“I was going to say ‘intense’, but I guess ‘rude’ fits as well.” He smiled at her and she tentatively smiled back. “You have some lovely flowers, Mrs Summers,” he said trying to put her at ease.

She beamed at him proudly.

“I do enjoy my roses. Did you know—”

“John!” Sherlock called after him impatiently and John shrugged.

“Sorry. Duty calls.”

They said their goodbyes and John trotted towards Sherlock who was already striding down the street, looking for a taxi.

“So, what was that about?” John asked. “Do you think she’s the murderer?”

“No, I think she’s very probably not, but I still don’t have all the facts.”

“Okay.” Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, so John sighed and asked, “where now?”

“Baker Street. I have a footprint to analyse.”

~*~

John lay awake in his bed and tried to clear his head. Sherlock was downstairs, bent over the microscope and still not saying anything about the case. John had lingered a bit in the living room, but felt like a piece of furniture and retired to bed. Which did him little good, since he felt unable to fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, Mary’s face would come to his mind, cold and emotionless, or fearful and covered in tears. He wanted to remember her as he’d met her, bright and smiling and lovely, but all he could see was a fading ghost of someone he wasn’t sure he knew.

He scoffed and looked at the amulet he tossed on the bedside table. A lot good it did for him now.

He must have fallen asleep at some point because next thing he knew, he was in Afghanistan again, and people were shooting at him. He was a participant in some sick game, like those he saw on the telly when people were meant to survive on their own, only the bullets were real, and the list of other players got progressively shorter and bloodier.

He just managed to avoid a landmine when someone stood in his way. He looked up and saw Mary in her red coat, unfitting for the desert, aiming a gun at him. He opened his mouth to say something to her but she didn’t give him a chance. A bullet went straight through him, only it wasn’t him, or his body that she’d shot and it wasn’t Mary who pulled the trigger. It was John, gun heavy in his hand, and on the ground, there was Sherlock, motionless and bleeding.

John was beside him at once, pressing on the wound, but Sherlock’s eyes just looked at him blankly, unseeing, already dead, and John knew it wasn’t real, it was all a lie but he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t be in his own mind anymore.

And then he wasn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took nearly three months to update this story! I really do have it all planned out and I had the first draft of this chapter mostly written by Easter. But then real life intervened, and it wasn't very nice to me these past couple of months while I was trying to write my thesis and pass the finals. Believe me, I really would have prefered writing this story instead. But, alas... My brain still hasn't fully recovered, so rewriting and editing this was painful, but I hope you'll still be able to enjoy it. ;) And I also hope my English is passable. If you see any unforgivable mistakes, you can always let me know and I will fix them. :)

He stood at the top of a staircase that looked strangely familiar. He had to squint until his eyes got used to the bright light that appeared to have no source. His leg throbbed with the phantom pain he hadn’t felt in months.

John started down the stairs with a feeling of déjà vu and an itching for his cane. Every step felt like getting further into the enemy territory, but he felt intimately acquainted with the path. It left John with an uneasy feeling and an urge to turn around and sneak out of wherever he was before someone could see him. So, obviously, he treaded down the stairs with even more determination.

He reached the landing and blinked at the corridor that stretched out before him, his heart dropping with the speed of a free-falling lift. He knew this corridor, knew it all too well, and it would seem his mind decided to trade one nightmare for another...

John took a deep breath to steady himself. He clenched and unclenched his fist and made a hesitant step forward. Sherlock was not about to die here. There was no murderous cabbie toying with his friend’s mind and there was no poisonous pill Sherlock or anyone else could take.

And yet, he couldn’t get to the first door fast enough. The logical part of his brain insisted that this had already happened and he’d been there to prevent the worst. The other part though — the one that still panicked whenever Sherlock as much as climbed a ladder — that part wasn’t listening. He opened the first door on the left and froze on the doorstep.

He was no longer at the Roland Kerr College. He looked back over his shoulder and, sure enough, that blasted corridor was still there but when he looked ahead, what greeted him was the aseptic air of the Bart’s morgue. The light was strangely dim compared to the brightly lit corridor but John had seen this room too many times to count and so it took him no time at all to recognize it.

Which could only mean trouble. He didn’t have fond memories of the place, and now it was linked with that bloody corridor. The perfect setting for a disaster.

He stood in the doorway and waited. For what, he wasn’t sure; a familiar body on the slab (again) or maybe a GPS signal leading him to Sherlock with no time to spare. Yet nothing happened. John gritted his teeth and stepped fully into the morgue, wary of triggering the disaster. But there was no body on the slab, no dark curls painted in red, no bloody lips calling his name. The morgue seemed silent and empty.

He just started to relax when he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. He immediately turned in that direction, ready to fight whatever it was.

 “Molly?” he called, surprised, and when he heard no answer, he came closer.

It _was_ Molly, standing in the corner of the room, looking ahead with hollow eyes. She wasn’t trying to hide and John should have noticed her earlier.

“Molly?” he called again, more firmly.

She turned her head to look at him but didn’t acknowledge his presence in any other way, going back to staring at the wall.

John swallowed his irritation and came even closer. It wasn’t like Molly to ignore him, she still felt a little bit guilty about not telling John Sherlock was alive. A part of John must still resent it in some way if that was how he saw her in his dreams: emotionless and indifferent, the very things Molly was not.

He waved a hand in front of her eyes and all he got in return was more staring that wasn’t even directed at him.

“Fine, be like that,” he muttered. “At least you didn’t pull a corpse for me to identify. That’s an improvement. I guess.”

Molly didn’t react, so John sighed and left the morgue, squinting at the sudden brightness of the same corridor he came from in the first place. He stood there for a moment that stretched into eternity and waited with morbid anticipation for something that didn’t come.

Finally, John shrugged and started towards the next door. He was apparently stuck in the most boring, uneventful dream he had in months and damn if he wasn’t going to take advantage of it. He opened the door and there was that déjà vu feeling again when he found himself walking into the lab in St. Bart’s. It looked exactly like it did the day he met Sherlock, the same clutter on the counter, the same microscope and petri dishes. John half expected to see the familiar tall figure conducting some experiment or another. Instead, he saw Philip Anderson sitting by the microscope. His presence was not as unobtrusive as Molly’s had been but equally puzzling. He appeared frozen in inaction, ignoring John just as Molly did.

 “Hello?” John called. He wasn’t surprised when he got no answer. “Did everyone just randomly decide they’re going to ignore me?”

There was still no answer, not so much as a look of recognition. John rolled his eyes and found himself a seat.

“Fine then,” he said to no one in particular. “I’ll just sit here until something happens then, shall I?”

Again, John got no answer. He sighed and sat by the counter, determined to wait this thing out, preferably not playing the game his broken mind had in store for him.

And then he heard a gunshot.

He was up and running in a heartbeat, leaving the still immobile Anderson behind. When he once more found himself in the corridor, he looked around with rising panic that he quickly swallowed, falling back into his military mode. Assess the situation, identify the threat, choose the right course of action, act.

The problem was, he wasn’t able to tell where the gunshot came from. There was no one there shooting at him and no more shots were fired. Sherlock would probably be able to deduce the source from the ringing in his ears or something. As it was, John was not Sherlock Holmes, so he started running towards the next door.

The room behind it looked like Lestrade’s office, only larger and with more bookcases. The shelves were full of neatly catalogued archives and Greg himself was bent over some papers, muttering.

This was new. John’s presence still went unacknowledged but even this fraction of activity was a nice change from Anderson’s creepy stillness. There were papers on the desk and John came closer to see what they were about. He frowned at the familiar disarray of last week’s case notes, all written in Sherlock’s handwriting. There was a post-it note with _Sweeter than Honey_ written on it — the title John intended to give the case on his blog, one Sherlock didn’t approve of at all.

“Hello?” John tried, without much hope. Greg looked at him briefly, much the same way Molly did, and went back to his files. Standing beside the desk, John was able to understand his muttering. His mouth twitched with amusement. “I guess we all curse the fate that made us clean after Sherlock Holmes from time to time, huh?,” he said but he didn’t get an answer.

He didn’t wait for one. Still shaking his head with silent amusement, he left the room and found himself once again in the corridor. He stood there for a moment, waiting for a second gunshot to come but nothing happened. John sighed and checked the next door.

This time, he walked straight into Mycroft’s office. Not his favourite place in the world, but at least there was no shooter. Just Mycroft Holmes sitting behind his desk and looking at John with raised eyebrows.

 “Oh, great, you can see me,” John said. “That’s a relief.”

He came closer, more than ready to demand some answers, but stopped a couple of feet before he reached the desk. Although Mycroft didn’t take his eyes off John even for a second, there was no real recognition there. Mycroft looked at him with polite curiosity, as if just greeting a guest.

John sighed and massaged his temples. This strange dream was really beginning to grate on his nerves.

He stormed out of the office and only stopped in front of the next door. He tried to open it but it was locked.

As it was the last door on the corridor, it was also likely that the gunshot came from behind it. And so John was determined to open it, even if he had to use some force. It was better to confront his fears early on rather than letting them grow on him even more.

But first things first. John searched his pockets for the lock picking set he took to carry in his coat but found a key instead. He frowned at it, weighed the key in his hand, and only hesitated a moment longer before putting it in the lock. The door opened with ease, leaving John blinking ahead with surprise.

He was looking at the Baker Street’s living room. It was a perfect replica, with papers strewn around haphazardly, an odd experiment here or there and both skulls firmly in their places.

A soft noise came from the kitchen and John headed there, hoping to finally see Sherlock — alive, if at all possible.

But it wasn’t Sherlock that John saw in the kitchen, no tall figure bent over the microscope, as he’d expected. Instead, John came face to face with himself.

He blinked and opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. He snapped his mouth shut and stared as he saw himself making tea. It was in itself unusual in this realm of slightly animated wax figures for someone to move this much. And looking at himself from an outsider’s perspective was frankly bizarre. It was like looking at his long lost twin, only less exhausted and life-weary.

The other John started humming a well-known melody and John found himself smiling without really meaning to. It seemed that in every reality John Watson could hum along to The Beatles’ hits. The other John took his tea and went to sit in his armchair without noticing him.

John debated trying to get his attention but eventually decided against it. It was already weird to watch himself, and he could only imagine how strange talking with the other John would be. Besides, no other attempt at getting anyone’s attention here worked for John so far. So eventually he just sighed and treaded down the narrow corridor to check Sherlock’s bedroom, just to be absolutely sure his friend wasn’t hiding somewhere, possibly sulking. But he wasn’t there and so John went up the stairs to his own room. When he opened the door, he stopped in his tracks.

There was nothing obviously wrong with the room. All the furniture was in its place, down to that ugly bedside table he’d been meaning to replace right from the start. There were things covering every available surface though, resembling a bit the living room’s clutter, only they appeared to be more strategically placed. Everything was either John’s or in some way related to him, like that ridiculous hat he once wore alongside Sherlock’s deerstalker (and thank _God_ it didn’t stick to him the same way the deerstalker stuck to Sherlock). He smiled fondly at the miniature pink suitcase.

There was a noise on the staircase and John turned around with a sudden feeling of anxiety.

“Mary?” he breathed and his voice cracked when he saw his wife in her wedding dress, a blank look on her face, gun pointed someplace above his heart. “What are you—”

Before he could finish the cautious question, Mary flickered like a hologram and disappeared.

John staggered and sat down on the bed, massaging his temples. This stupid nightmare was proving to be more draining than some of his army dreams.

He took a couple of deep breaths and stood up, shoulders drawn back with determination. He went down the stairs and risked a glance towards the other John. He was still sitting in his armchair, the cup of tea on the small table on his right. The chair was slightly moved to face the television. It was switched on, some mindless TV show playing quietly in the background.

The other John didn’t pay any attention to it, however, frowning at his mobile. He began texting, sighing with frustration every time the screen lit up with an incoming message. It appeared Sherlock Holmes had texting superpowers in every universe as well.

John made himself look away and left Baker Street, still shaken by Mary’s sudden appearance. There were no other doors on the familiar corridor, so John went in the direction he came from. He reached the staircase in no time at all and started down the stairs. He hesitated at the next landing but the prospect of yet another corridor full of doors with eerie mannequins didn’t sound very appealing. He continued down the stairs, hoping to find a way out of this dream.

He passed various levels of stairs, pointedly ignoring the many corridors with many doors and when he reached the bottom, his veins were vibrating with anticipation. There was another door right in front of him and if there was any chance at all of getting out, it would probably be through that door. He walked closer, took a deep breath and opened it.

“Well, that’s... not what I imagined,” he said, not even trying to hide his disappointment. The room he walked into looked like a round cell in a dungeon tower or like a bottom of a particularly big well. The lights flickered with fluorescent buzz and for one tense moment John expected to see Mary again, this time finishing her job, whatever it might have been.

He heard a chilling giggle instead.

“Who’s there?” he asked, turning to examine the cell again. There was a figure he hadn’t noticed before, curled by the wall, wrapped in a straightjacket and secured by chains. “Hello?” John called again, his voice echoing back at him.

The figure chuckled again and started murmuring something in a sing-song voice that sent chills down John’s spine. The lights flickered again and the smell of chlorine filled the cell.

“No...” John croaked and had to clear his throat. He started backing up against the wall. “It can’t be— I can’t do this again.”

A new wave of maniacal laughter followed and then Moriarty looked right at him, his neck bending in that creepy reptilian way. John squared his shoulders and prepared to listen to the usual taunting, but Moriarty just giggled and turned his head away from him. John tried to still his beating heart and reached for the door as soon as he was sure his leg wouldn’t give. He sat on the stairs and took a couple of deep breaths, wishing he could just wake up already.

And then the stairs moved. He let out a surprised yelp that he immediately squashed and started running up the stairs. Something was happening, the whole structure seemed to burst into life where it had felt like a mausoleum before. People were gathering in the corridors, rooms seemed to be rearranging, and John reached the top of the stairs faster than he thought he would. He followed the buzzing noise right to that first corridor and finally saw the person he was looking for the whole time.

“Sherlock?” he called, trying not to let the hope overcome him. He should prepare to be ignored like he’d been ignored this whole time.

And yet Sherlock turned around quickly at the sound of his voice. He levelled him with a stare that was strangely resigned and a bit scared, something that stopped John in his tracks.

“How did you get out?” Sherlock asked and John sagged with relief.

“Oh thank God you can see me,” he said and came closer.

“Of course I can see you,” Sherlock scoffed at him, looking offended.

John crossed his arms.

“Well, no one else did,” he said and frowned. “Or they did but decided to ignore me.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at him for a moment and then he looked at the first door — the one leading to the morgue — with a thoughtful expression.

“That’s... unusual,” he said, turning back to John. “They normally acknowledge your presence.”

“Yeah, thanks Sherlock. That was a brilliant observation, as always, I would have never thought of that.”

John wasn’t prepared for Sherlock’s reaction to his words. He visibly flinched and looked at him with a hurt expression that John never wanted to see again. Sherlock gave him a curt nod with clenched jaw and didn’t even bother to put on the mask he always wore around other people.

“Sherlock?” John made a hesitant move to comfort his friend but Sherlock just stepped back and closed his eyes. When he opened them, John found himself again on the receiving end of that resigned stare.

“How did you get out?” Sherlock asked, his voice flat.

“I’m... pretty sure I got _in_ , actually.” John looked around with a frown. “What is all this, then?”

“I locked the door.”

“Which one?” John raised his eyebrows. “The one to Baker Street? I’ve got a key.”

Sherlock let out a sigh and mumbled something that may have sounded like ‘Of course you do’. John was about to ask him to elaborate, when Sherlock looked at him and shook his head.

“No matter, I have a case to solve,” he said, sounding determined.

“A case?” Sherlock started towards the morgue and John automatically followed him. “What case?”

They had a case, back in the real world, one that John nearly forgot existed. But there were rarely cases in John’s dreams, and they never ended well.

“The ghost case,” Sherlock said and seemed to brace himself for some insult. John frowned at him.

“Sherlock, what—”

“The bodies?” Sherlock interrupted him, his gaze fixed on the three suddenly occupied slabs.

“They were all stabbed to death,” said Molly and John looked at her with surprise. She abandoned her corner and spoke directly to Sherlock. “Livor mortis fully settled, rigor not yet at maximum when you saw the bodies.” She talked in a professional no nonsense voice that didn’t sound like Molly at all. “I’d say dead about nine-ten hours, which would now be closer to sixteen. They all reached the room’s temperature by the time you saw them.”

“And it was bloody hot in there,” John muttered getting the attention of both Sherlock and Molly. “Sorry, that wasn’t helpful,” he said and shrugged.

Sherlock looked down at the bodies with a frown.

“John said something about discolouration on the medium’s body,” he murmured and then turned to face John. “Do you remember?”

“I...” John squared his shoulders and came closer to the body in question. “Yes, I thought he might have been killed somewhere else and dragged to the table much later. Livor suggests a lying position... Sorry, is this helping?”

Sherlock was smiling at him gently, looking nervous.

And then Molly slapped him.

“Focus!” she told him sharply and John could only gape at her with wide eyes. Sherlock didn’t seem surprised. “Is this helping?”

“You tell me.”

“If the room was warm enough, the other two bodies could have reached the right temperature quite fast. It also speeds the setting of livor mortis. The medium could have been killed earlier and dragged back to the room to make it look like an interrupted session.”

“So what, the couple comes to see the medium only to find him already dead?” John asked.

“It’s possible,” Sherlock said, smiling at him more fully.

“It would also explain why only the husband has defensive wounds on his arms,” Molly said, switching to look at the body on her right. “Seems like the dead body was the least of their worries.”

“Unless it rose and killed the couple,” John said, picturing a zombie with a knife and sniggering at the thought. “Sorry,” he said when he noticed both Sherlock and Molly were looking at him.

“What about the blood?” Sherlock asked.

The world around John swirled and next thing he knew, they were all standing in the lab, Sherlock and Anderson staring at the computer screen.

“The blood used to write the messages belonged to the victims but the sample from the cupboard didn’t,” Anderson said. “There are traces of the same blood on the husband’s clothes.”

“DNA’s similar to the wife’s,” Sherlock murmured.

“Obviously, since it’s Robert Summers’ blood.” Anderson scoffed at him and Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes closed. “Also his DNA.”

“But ghosts don’t bleed,” John said and then frowned. “Sherlock, are you—”

“Then it looks like a very good framing...”

“Oh, use your imagination!” A new voice startled John and made Sherlock flinch. John turned to see that Mycroft had materialized next to him and was now sneering at his brother. “What does the DNA tell you?”

John turned to look at Sherlock but in his place stood a pouty, scared child with the familiar mix of dark curls and blue-green-grey eyes. Before John could process the change, the boy — Sherlock — started speaking.

“Someone left Summers’ DNA on the crime scene,” he said, defiant like a student challenged by the professor.

“Then why do you let assumptions cloud your judgement like those idiots from Scotland Yard?” Mycroft asked with disdain clear both in his voice and manner. He stepped closer to little Sherlock and suddenly they changed places again. Mycroft circled Sherlock in his own office and sat on the desk, his gaze condescending. “You’re even a bigger idiot than they are.”

“I’m not an idiot!” Sherlock protested weakly and John had to fight the urge to hit Mycroft. It wasn’t worth it if it only happened in a dream.

“Oh, but you are.” Mycroft smirked and shook his head at him. “And you know how Mummy hates idiocy. What if I tell her, little brother? What if she knows you can’t even solve a simple crime?”

On the other hand, if it happened in a dream, there were no real consequences.

Sherlock didn’t respond, just seemed to curl into himself, staring at the floor. John couldn’t look at him so small and vulnerable, being insulted from every direction. Dream or not, it wasn’t right. He came closer and made to hug the boy but Sherlock jumped away, his eyes wide and scared. John gritted his teeth.

“Mycroft Holmes!” he said angrily, making sure to employ his army voice. “Don’t talk to him like that!”

Mycroft merely looked at him with disinterest and focused his gaze on Sherlock, who kept sending furtive glances at John and back at his brother.

“You of all people should know the answer to this,” Mycroft said and grimaced as if he ate a lemon. “What’s the simplest solution to someone’s DNA being at the crime scene?”

They snapped back to the lab and this time when they landed, John hit the counter with his bad leg. He swore loudly and massaged the pain that immediately went away. He blinked at his thigh, then shrugged and looked up. He sighed with relief when he saw that Sherlock reverted to his normal adult form.

“The footprint matches the soles of Summers’ trainers,” Anderson said and smirked. “Even I could see that. So obvious.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in, then out. He opened his eyes, glanced briefly at John as if he expected another cutting remark and looked at Mycroft when it didn’t come.

“So either someone tried very hard to frame him—”

“What did you see in the house?” Mycroft interrupted him and stepped closer, intimidating his brother even further.

“I—” Sherlock stuttered and they were moving again until they landed in Mrs Summers’ living room.

“What did you see?” Mycroft prompted, impatient, and Sherlock reverted back to his child form. To John’s astonishment, he slapped himself out of it and changed into an adult in no time.

Then he looked at John for what seemed like a very long time, a small smile turning his lips up, a soft gleam in his eyes. John couldn’t help but smile back.

“Not him, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice cut the air with its viciousness and John’s clenched fist itched. “Stop being a sentimental fool. What did you see?”

“The ticket,” Sherlock said, averting his eyes.

“No.”

“Two tickets.”

“And this tells us...?”

“Robert Summers is very much alive.”

Another movement transported them back to the corridor they started in. There was a moment of silence when everyone just stared blankly at whatever was right ahead of them, including Sherlock who nevertheless looked very tense. Only John stared at Sherlock, his mouth slightly open as if waiting for the right words to come through it.

“You mean,” he started and cleared his throat. Sherlock glanced at him briefly and quickly looked away. “You mean he faked his death just to kill his sister, her husband and that medium guy?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and then started talking at a very impressive speed, even for him.

“His DNA was found at the crime scene, as well as his fingerprints and a footprint that matches perfectly the trainers left at the house, probably to deflect suspicion. He clearly knew his sister was extremely superstitious, if the amulets hanging around the living room could be anything to go by. They’re clearly presents, they don’t go with the décor and you can’t find them anywhere else in the house, from what I’ve seen. And of course the wife was in on it. Her nervousness was rather suspicious but the tickets are a much better proof.”

Sherlock finally stopped talking, though he looked like he’d gladly continue the monologue, only ran out of words. He kept sending John furtive glances that were so unlike him they were beginning to make John nervous.

“That’s—” John started, his urge to compliment Sherlock present even in this dream. If it was a dream; John wasn’t so sure about that anymore. He was interrupted by an echo of the familiar hateful giggle. It seemed to slowly crawl up the walls, spreading and tainting everything with threads of fear. John shivered.

“Silly Sherlock,” Moriarty’s voice taunted and it was almost as if he were standing right behind John, muttering into his ear. John shook his head and looked at Sherlock who stood with his eyes closed and jaw clenched. “Silly, silly, _silly_. Even ordinary people know better how to treat their pets. See?” Another giggle cut through the air and made the blood in John’s veins freeze. The chains rattled but seemed to hold Moriarty in his cell. His voice carried up though. “He leaves me. He leaves me not. He leaves me. He leaves me not,” he intoned with childish delight and it seemed to drill right into John’s skull. Sherlock looked petrified, his eyes wide open and trained at John. “Is he gonna leave now or the next time someone fakes their death?”

“Stop!” Sherlock said but he sounded small and frightened. John almost expected him to revert back into his child form, but he didn’t.

Another manic giggle.

“Tick tock break the lock, you thought he was forgiving, ding dong you’ve got it wrong, the soldier will be leaving.”

The nursery rhyme ended on a more threatening note and Sherlock flinched. He then closed his eyes with a pained expression and let out a sigh.

“Sherlock,” John started and came to stand by his side. He touched his shoulder and Sherlock froze for a second but then leaned into the touch. “I won’t—”

He was interrupted by another giggle, full of chilling glee.

“Oh, isn’t that adorable,” Moriarty mocked. “You put so much care into not letting him out, have you finally given up?”

Sherlock immediately put some distance between himself and John, seemingly unable to break out of the strange trance.

"Look at you. So ordinary, so caring about tiny little humans, jumping off buildings to save their pathetic little lives, getting yourself tortured."

"What?" John's eyes immediately snapped to Sherlock who stood there still with his head bowed and listened to Moriarty's taunting without a word, as if he deserved it. "What does he—"

"But love?" Moriarty giggled again. "Silly Sherlock, weak Sherlock, boring Sherlock." He clicked his tongue. "You're slipping." And his voice turned to venom.

"Love?" John frowned. "What is he talking about?"

But Sherlock wouldn't look at him, wouldn't so much as sneer at him.

So that of course was Moriarty's cue to continue.

"And he doesn't know, does he? No, he mustn't know just how much you care. He'll leave. He'll leave." John flinched at the higher notes. "And you'll let him, Sherlock. He'll find himself a new wife and break your heart with another wedding, and you'll let him. So selfless, so disgustingly boring."

Another giggle sounded in the air and then Sherlock finally looked at John, his shoulders slumped, his face more open than John had ever seen. The fear was gone though, replaced with a resigned determination.

"It's a good thing I'll never tell him then," Sherlock said and John felt swallowed by a wave of realization too real to happen in a dream.

He made a step towards Sherlock, not sure what to do once he'd reach him but Molly got there first. She slapped him again and just like that Moriarty's voice was gone.

“Focus,” she said sharply. “You’re not done here yet.

Sherlock mumbled something that may have sounded suspiciously like ‘thank you’. John could only stare at him with astonishment.

“Yeah, what about the medium’s death,” Anderson said, appearing beside Sherlock from wherever he’d gone to. “He didn’t see it coming.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed and his voice sounded much firmer. He almost sounded excited again — after puzzling out nearly every detail of the case, he was finally able see the whole picture, and it always left him giddy.

John, on the other hand, couldn’t move. He kept staring at Sherlock, maybe hoping he’d explain Moriarty’s words so he could finally understand. But it wasn’t what Sherlock was explaining.

“The medium was in on it the whole time. Summers made a deal with him even before his alleged death, most likely promised to share some profits. It was easy to convince Summers’ sister to come talk with her dead brother and judging by the look of the card she had in her pocket, she’s done that quite a lot in the recent month.”

“But why would he want to kill his sister?” John said and frowned, surprised he managed to even make a sound.

Sherlock looked at him briefly and then away.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I was rather hoping we could ask Summers himself when we catch him.”

“Don’t get sidetracked,” Mycroft scolded him again and Sherlock clenched his jaw. “The motive is of little importance if you base it on speculation. Is sentiment really clouding your judgment?”

“It’s not,” Sherlock said. He sounded like a petulant child but thankfully stayed in his adult form.

“Then stick to the facts. Why did the medium die?”

They switched to the morgue again, the medium’s body displayed on a slab.

“Something went wrong,” Sherlock said. Molly stood beside him, a calm presence, ready to assist. “One of them broke the deal. Most likely the medium refused to help anymore, or possibly demanded more money.”

“I said ‘stick to the facts’, dear brother,” Mycroft chipped in. “How is that any better than guessing.”

Sherlock straightened his back defiantly.

“I have solid grounds to make conclusions.”

“If you say so,” Mycroft said with a condescending smirk and disappeared.

“Do you know where he is?” John asked after a moment of silence.

The world changed around them again and soon they were standing in front of the entrance to Mrs Summers' house. For the second time, John could see himself moving in front of him, like in a very realistic 3D film. 

He was talking with Mrs Summers, as he had been doing only the previous day, but once again he looked different from what he himself perceived in a mirror. He suspected it was an image Sherlock had of him, as it was most probably the projection of his friend's memories. And it was fascinating how little details made this other John’s face practically glowing.

 "You have some lovely flowers, Mrs Summers," he heard himself saying, his voice strangely rich and pleasant. 

That had to be the moment when Moriarty decided to contribute with his opinion again. He intoned another nursery rhyme, which his sing-song voice turned into a creepy thing even more than the words he used.

 “Ring-a-ring o’ roses, his shoes are full of poison,” he sang and then giggled. Thankfully, that was all he had to say on the matter.

 "Poison?" John asked looking at Sherlock with a frown.

 "Fertilizer. I noticed traces of it on his shoes but there weren't any in the footprint. The roses were recently fertilized, so, assuming no one else wore his shoes, which is a fair assumption since he didn't bother to be subtle, he was in the house between the crime and our visit."

 "To be fair, he probably thought being dead was a pretty good alibi," John said.

 He expected an inappropriate giggle, maybe a smirk but certainly not a defeated expression and a quiet, "yes."

 "So he's still living in the house?" John asked, desperate for something that would make Sherlock look and act like himself again.

 "It's possible." Sherlock immediately recovered. "His wife was nervous enough during our visit. I assumed it was just her guilty conscience but maybe she feared getting caught. She might have warned her husband to run away, though his shoes were still in place when we left."

 "He might have gone away after we left or used other shoes," John said.

 "Yes, he might have even taken his wife, though I would advise against it. Pretty suspicious. They might have, however, assumed that if we haven't found anything yet, we won't find it at all, and stayed. Either way, the Summers' house seems like a good place to start looking for our killer."

 The setting shifted again leaving them back in the corridor. With Mycroft. John winced and resigned himself to another bout of sneering.

 "Another case solved. How quaint," Mycroft said. "Now go and catch the killer."

 Sherlock looked tempted to do just that but then he looked at John and shook his head.

 "John is sleeping," he said, which would sound ridiculous since John stood right beside him, but John started suspecting a long time ago that this was something more complicated than a simple dream.

 "It never stopped you before," Mycroft said and swirled his umbrella in a very dramatic fashion.

 "No," Sherlock acknowledged from behind clenched teeth. "But he's still hurting after Mary and... and I don't want to give him any more reasons to be angry with me than he already has."

 John made a move to comfort Sherlock but stopped himself when Sherlock flinched.

 "How disgustingly sentimental of you," Mycroft mocked him. "Are you ever going to tell him?"

 Sherlock glared daggers at him but then looked down and murmured, very quietly, "no".

 And then he vanished.

 "Sher— Sherlock!" John called but his voice just carried down the empty corridor.

 Well, almost empty.

 "You don't belong here," Mycroft told him. "You should leave."

 "No, I need to find Sherlock."

 "Suit yourself,” said Mycroft and disappeared with a smirk.

 “I didn’t know he could be even more of a bastard,” John muttered and started opening doors again, looking for Sherlock.

He didn’t find him in the morgue, nor in the lab, and he was nowhere near Baker Street. John took some time to observe his lookalike in light of what he might have possibly found out, and all the little pieces started making sense.

But he still felt that he needed to find Sherlock as soon as possible, so he left Baker Street and went down the stairs to check another corridor. He almost gave up after what felt like hours of pointless looking but finally — _finally_ — he opened the right door.

And stood speechless with a hand on the handle.

“Come on, Redbeard! Fetch!” Sherlock called and threw a ball. A dog, a grown Irish Setter, went after it with a happy bark that made Sherlock chuckle. John rarely heard him so relaxed, and barely ever since he came back after those damn two years.

John closed the door behind him quietly but Sherlock must have heard him anyway because he turned to face him with a guarded expression. Some of the tension left him when he saw it was John standing there. Not all of it though, and it made John want to retreat. But then Sherlock smiled at him gently, if a little resigned, and John came closer.

“You’ve never found me here yet,” Sherlock said, absently rubbing his fingers behind the dog’s ears.

“Turns out checking every door in here one by one is strangely effective,” John said and noticed with satisfaction that Sherlock’s lips curved upwards.

“Yes,” he said. “Would changing the lock be enough to keep you in?”

“I—” John frowned because that was the part he was most confused about. “Sherlock, where are we?” he asked. “Really, just... where?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to frown.

“You don’t know?”

“Well, I can guess but...” John shrugged.

Sherlock sighed and threw the ball again.

“I thought everyone in the palace knew where they were or just... didn’t care,” he said quietly and sat on the floor. “You’re not exactly real after all. Just... patterns. Bookmarks.”

“Palace?” John repeated, confused. Then his eyes widened. “We’re in your mind palace?”

“Where else?” The dog brought Sherlock the ball and eyed John curiously. “Say hello to Redbeard, John.”

“Hi,” John said and felt silly for talking to a dog. Redbeard barked and came closer to lick at John’s hand.

Sherlock smiled at them gently.

“I knew he would like you,” he said. “We’re playing fetch.”

“Yes,” John said, not sure where this was going. He was still trying to process the fact that this could really not be a dream after all but Sherlock’s mind palace. That he could have been given an opportunity to not only glimpse at his friend’s mind at work but actually see what it looked like. And Sherlock had been right; he didn’t like it. “Yes, I can see that.”

Something in Sherlock’s eyes fell for a second but he recovered quickly. Not quickly enough though to leave John without a weird sense of guilt.

“No, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Do you want to play?” Sherlock blurted out and avoided John’s eyes. “With us, I mean. It’s fine if you don’t—”

“I do,” John said quickly, trying to prevent Sherlock from mumbling helplessly. “I always liked dogs,” he added and sat on the floor opposite Sherlock at some distance, so that they could pass the ball between them.

“Good. That’s... good.”

They threw the ball back and forth for some time and John could feel himself relax. Then one time he threw the ball too far. Sherlock had to practically lay on the ground to reach it and that was enough for Redbeard to climb onto him and start licking his face. Sherlock laughed with real joy John wasn’t sure he ever heard in such a sincere unfiltered way. Sherlock burrowed his face in Redbeard’s fur and looked at John with sparkling eyes full of fondness. John had a sudden urge to kiss him, which was new but not entirely unexpected.

The moment didn’t last very long. Soon enough, Sherlock’s expression fell again and he sighed into Redbeard’s fur. The dog licked him and ran to John, and laid his head on John’s lap.

“You never said anything about dogs,” John said, petting Redbeard. “I’d sooner expect you to build a beehive in our kitchen than bring home a puppy.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Last time I had a dog, it didn’t end up well,” he said and motioned towards Redbeard.

“Did you accidentally poison him?” John asked, fondly, but Sherlock still recoiled. “I didn’t—”

“I think it might already be morning in London by now,” Sherlock interrupted him. “Surely it must be. It’s not very feasible for the night to last this long.”

“Sherlock…”

“It might still be too early to wake John up though,” Sherlock said and frowned, clearly uncertain.

John smiled at him gently.

“I think John won’t mind,” he said. “He never really does.”

Sherlock snorted.

“He’s always going on about how sleep is important and how he’s going to catch and early death because he’s not rested enough.”

This John couldn’t argue with.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But he secretly loves it. He could always stay behind and yet he chooses to follow you.”

Sherlock stared at him for a very long time and John just started thinking he broke him again, like that time he asked Sherlock to be his best man, but then Sherlock smiled at him tentatively.

“When did you get so… helpful?” Sherlock asked. “I don’t remember you ever being like this.”

And that, right there, was why John hated Sherlock’s mind palace. He wanted to go to Sherlock’s version of Baker Street and punch himself in the face for every mean word he might have directed at Sherlock. He didn’t get to hear any of it but maybe that was for the best. And then there was Mary — in her wedding dress and holding a gun, no less — and God only knew what she did to Sherlock when she managed to catch up with him. Everyone here deserved a punch in the face.

He would have never guessed how much Sherlock’s mind could hate him. Suddenly the drugs made a morbid sort of a sense.

John recoiled mentally but then made sure to smile at Sherlock.

“Go an make John some tea,” he said. “He’ll be much more pliant that way.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, absently stroking Redbeard’s fur. Then a thoughtful expression appeared on his face, which generally meant no good. John shifted nervously and opened his mouth to say something else but Sherlock started talking first.

“Maybe I can make John smile,” he said. “A bit. He hasn’t been smiling that much since Mary... well. That’s understandable, I suppose but— What?” He stopped himself, no doubt at the sight of John’s shocked expression. “Is it not... good?” Sherlock asked, suddenly unsure. “I thought it was rather a good thing to make other people happy?”

He looked at John expectantly. John cleared his throat around a sudden lump.

 “No, it’s…” he started and had to clear his throat again. “It’s very good, Sherlock. You should do that.”

Sherlock beamed at him and then he was gone, leaving John to deal with a huge wave of confusing emotions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm _so_ done with this part. I'm no longer able to tell if it's any good, so I'll leave this bit to you and hope that you enjoy it. Thank you so much for being patient with me! :)

The world was shaking around him. John felt pressure on his shoulder, his bullet wound flared up with pain, and it would be just his luck to get shot _twice_ in the same place. He couldn’t see much of anything but the buzzing in his ears slowly coalesced into a low insistent sound...

“John!”

John’s eyes flew open and he blinked up at his flatmate, still a little disoriented. Sherlock looked annoyed as he let go of his shoulder and pointed at the bedside table.

“I made tea,” he said.

John blinked at him again, then opened his mouth to say something but no words came out of it as he caught sight of tea steaming from his favourite mug. Why on earth would Sherlock bring him—

He gasped when his eyes fell on the amulet still lying on the bedside table.

“John?” Sherlock said with an impatient sigh.

John looked back at him and couldn’t stop a silly grin from appearing on his face.

“You brought me tea,” he said, still smiling.

Sherlock fixed him with a stare and for a moment John thought he was going to say something derisive. But whatever he saw on John’s face made his eyes shine brighter and he looked entirely too smug. John shrugged and reached for the mug. He hummed contentedly after taking the first sip of the perfectly made tea.

“Mm, thank you, Sherlock, it’s lovely,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started pacing in front of John’s bed but he couldn’t hide the pleased smile that lingered on his lips. He soon began twitching and sending John fleeting glances and John sighed when he caught sight of the clock.

“Solved the case then?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said and hesitated just a second before explaining. “It was Robert Summers.”

“What, really?” Sherlock nodded in confirmation. John blinked at him with surprise. There was still a chance that John’s visit to Sherlock’s mind palace was just a dream but it looked less and less likely. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check. “But he’s dead!” John said and frowned. “Isn’t he?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and just observed John while he was drinking his tea.

“Apparently not,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “And his wife is also involved.”

“Christ,” John muttered. It still puzzled him why someone would get to such lengths just to kill his sister. Then again, John’s own wife shot his best friend for no good reason and then—

“Will you be having breakfast?” Sherlock asked flatly.

“What?” John looked at him and realized that Sherlock must have read his mind again and tried to distract John from his thoughts. “Oh, right. Are we going somewhere?”

Sherlock shot him a fond version of his don’t-be-an-idiot-stare. It was a slightly upgraded version of his usual condescending look, one reserved for very few people.

“There’s a criminal on the loose, possibly making his way to the airport as we speak.”

John smiled at him indulgently and got out of bed. He didn’t miss Sherlock averting his gaze while he stretched.

“Right. Okay,” John said. “Just tea for me then. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.”

“No, take your time,” Sherlock said, then reconsidered. “But not too much,” he added.

“I did hear that part about a criminal on the loose, you know,” John said and started gathering clothes. Sherlock took that as his cue to retreat, which was uncharacteristically tactful of him. “Sherlock,” John called after him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John over his shoulder. “Thank you. For the tea, I mean.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then nodded and left the room.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock was restless during their taxi ride, constantly reminding the driver to go faster. John considered telling him that they could have always left the flat sooner but then he remembered Sherlock’s hesitation in his mind palace and stayed quiet. Besides, he was quite busy with the toast Sherlock made for him. He appreciated the gesture and ignored the unhappy looks the cabbie kept sending in his direction.

“So, what’s the plan?” John asked after swallowing the last bite.

“We go in and if they’re still there, we apprehend them,” Sherlock said as if they were over this countless times already.

“Just like that?” John frowned. “Have you texted Lestrade?”

“Come on, John, I hardly think incapacitating two people will require the whole squad.”

“Well, one of them _is_ a murderer,” John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and, given their track record with criminals, he had a point.

“They might not even be there,” Sherlock said. “It would be such a waste of police resources if the house was already empty, won’t you agree?” John shrugged but didn’t make a comment. He never needed much convincing. “Not to mention annoying. They’d make us ride in a police car, no doubt.”

John snorted and smiled at Sherlock.

“Would it help if we stole one of those?” he asked.

Sherlock smirked and looked out the window.

“Probably,” he said.

There was a moment of charged silence. Then Sherlock turned to look at him and they dissolved into giggles.

“I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore,” John said when he managed to control his laughing. “You stole a bus once.”

“We’ve already discussed it. I didn’t steal it. I—”

“ _Borrowed it_ , yeah.” John grinned at his friend and the pleased expression crept back onto Sherlock’s face. It turned serious almost immediately.

“It’s good to,” he started and cleared his throat. “To hear you... I mean...”

He looked and sounded similar to that time by the pool when he tried to thank John for giving him a chance to run. At least there was no loaded gun for him to wave around this time.

“Yes,” John said and realized he hadn’t thought about Mary or the baby since they left Baker Street. “It feels good, too.” He smiled at Sherlock who didn’t look entirely convinced but didn’t say anything either. “So, tell me how you figured it out,” John said.

Sherlock grinned and related all the details that John had already heard in his mind palace. He made sure to tell Sherlock just how brilliant he was.

 

~*~

 

The house was dark and silent. Their footsteps echoed loudly in John’s ears when they approached the front door. He had to fight the urge to sneeze or cough when the intense smell of roses invaded his senses.

“Do we knock now, or...?” John asked quietly.

“And alert them to our presence?” Sherlock tried the handle but the door was locked. He rolled his eyes and started picking the lock.

“Someday someone will read the files and question every single time they say the door wasn’t locked in the middle of the bloody night.”

“Are you done complaining?” Sherlock asked and straightened up. John didn’t know if he should be more impressed or alarmed by Sherlock’s superhuman lock picking skills.

“Haven’t even started yet,” John told him and Sherlock scowled. “But I’ll try to refrain myself for a moment.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John saw the little smile playing on his lips before he turned his head away.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked with his hand on the handle.

John nodded and they entered the house. The floor protested loudly under their steps in a tense silence broken only by the ticking of a clock. The air smelled vaguely of a floral air freshener. A mask over the fireplace glared at them when they reached the empty living room.

“So, are we thinking bedroom or basement?” John whispered, eyeing the mask.

“Bedroom first,” Sherlock murmured.

John nodded. It made sense that at least Mrs Summers should be there at this moment, unless she started work very early. Whether they would find her husband in there with her remained to be seen.

After a pointed look from Sherlock, John reached for his gun and Sherlock opened the bedroom door. The room was as empty as the rest of the house, the bed made and the closet clearly missing clothes.

“Well then,” John said with a frown.

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgment and turned back towards the basement when a loud slam of the door and a curse echoed through the air. Sherlock looked at John and they both started running.

John went for the back door. He caught a glimpse of two figures disappearing around the corner.

“Hey, stop!” he shouted and ran after them.

When he caught up with them, he saw Sherlock struggling with Robert Summers while Mrs Summers kept hitting the detective with a suitcase.

“Oi, that’s enough!” John bellowed in his best soldier voice. That, coupled with the sight of his gun stopped both Mr and Mrs Summers in their tracks for the split second Sherlock needed to incapacitate the man. John took the suitcase from Mrs Summers and manhandled her back into the house with no qualms about gallantry. Life showed him that women could be dangerously crafty and he wasn’t going to take any chances. It was difficult to match Mrs Summers’ behaviour with how she acted the previous day which was enough to make John suspicious.

He dropped her on the sofa beside her husband, dragged there already by Sherlock.

“You have no right,” Mr Summers growled.

“And you are dead and, therefore, unable to voice such an opinion,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. Judging by the furious look on Summers’ face, it was highly effective in riling him up. John adjusted his grip on the gun.

“Lestrade?” he asked, still keeping an eye on both culprits.

“Already texted him.” Sherlock smirked. “My phone hasn’t been silent since, so I can only assume there’s a string of uncreative invectives waiting for me.”

John snorted. He really shouldn’t be endorsing this kind of behaviour in Sherlock. Probably. But it was bloody hilarious how ridiculous the man could be.

“Just make sure we read them together,” he said instead of a mandatory reprimand and Sherlock grinned.

“Are you quite done?” Mr Summers asked, looking from Sherlock to John and back. “We have a plane to catch.”

His wife remained stubbornly silent, leaning back into the couch with crossed arms and a clenched jaw.

“Not today,” Sherlock said and Summers raised his chin defiantly. “I dare say you won’t need to board an aeroplane in a very long time. Even Scotland Yard will be able to put together _some_ things when they see you alive and well. There’s an overwhelming amount of evidence left on the scene. Very sloppy.”

Summers glared at him.

“Looks like you’ve got this all figured out,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I do.” Sherlock cocked his head. “So you might as well tell me why you did it.”

An ugly, unpleasant expression appeared on Summers’ face. He looked like a kid staring down at a bee drowning in a puddle and ready to crush it.

“So you _don’t_ know everything then,” he said, a crooked smile contorting his mouth. “I’m dead, remember? I can’t tell you anything.”

Sherlock scowled at him. Before he could reply, they heard police sirens approaching, so he settled on a murderous glare. John managed to hide his gun before the police stormed into the house.

 “What the hell, Sherlock?” Lestrade was furious when he came into the living room. He looked around at the scene in front of him and sighed heavily. “Christ. You can’t just keep doing this.”

“Hey, Greg,” John said cheerfully. “Mind arresting these two on the sofa? Kinda tired of watching them.”

“Shit, not you too,” Greg complained and sent John a look that promised a lengthy discussion sometime in the future. “Who are they then?”

“Well, you’ve met Mrs Summers,” Sherlock said. “Supposedly,” he added and Greg crossed his arms. “And this is her husband and — incidentally — your killer, Robert Summers.”

Lestrade blinked at him.

“You’re kidding.”

“If you don’t believe me, try running some DNA tests,” Sherlock said. “You could ask his wife but she’s been very unhelpful up to this point. Did I mention she’s involved too?”

“Shit.” Lestrade massaged his temples. “Christ. Okay.”

He motioned for a young constable to cuff them.

“Cheers, mate,” John said. Greg sent him another dirty look.

“Greg.” Donovan handed over IDs she found in the suitcase. Sherlock looked at them and rolled his eyes with an annoyed sigh.

“Or you can look at their IDs,” he said. “Although they could technically be falsified. I still think that comparing DNA would be more fun.”

“Not to mention expensive and time-consuming,” Lestrade murmured looking at the IDs. He sighed. “I guess we’ll have to do the tests anyway but this,” he waved the cards in front of them, “this actually gives us better grounds for the arrest than only your word would.” Sherlock’s jaw worked for a bit and then he murmured something John didn’t catch. For a split second he almost looked as hurt as he did in his mind palace. John looked at him with concern. “Thank you, Donovan,” Greg said and motioned for the constable beside her to take Mr and Mrs Summers to a police car.

“Sherlock...” John started but his friend waved him away. Then Sherlock grabbed his wrist and led him to the fireplace. “What—”

“Photos,” Sherlock said and pointed at the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” John said slowly looking at Sherlock and not at the pictures. “Photos on the mantelpiece — very boring, very cliché.” They could have a skull there after all.

Sherlock smirked at him.

“No,” he said. “Well, yes actually, but I’m interested in what’s _in_ the pictures.”

John frowned and looked at them.

“Well, there’s our lovely couple of criminals,” he said. “Or do you mean this older lady here?” he asked, pointing at a woman that could be Mrs Hudson’s age. She had a hand on Robert Summers’ shoulder and her other arm was cropped out of the photo. “Summers’ mother?” John asked.

“Robert’s, yes. Similar bone structure. There’s something else about this picture though.”

“Um...” John glanced at Sherlock who only pointed back at the photo. So John squinted at the picture trying to see what Sherlock was on about. “No, sorry.”

“The frame?” Sherlock prompted with unusual patience.

John frowned at the frame but still couldn’t figure out what it was that got Sherlock’s attention. He reached for it, only to be stopped by a familiar voice.

“No touching the evidence,” Donovan said and handed them a pair of gloves each. Sherlock scowled at her but put his on. John followed suit.

“Sorry,” he said not really meaning it.

“What was that about the frame, Holmes?” Sally asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“John?” he prompted.

“Right.” John reached for the frame again with a quick glance at Donovan. She only raised an eyebrow at him this time and he suddenly felt like a student asked to declaim a poem in front of the entire school. “Right.” He cleared his throat and turned the frame in his hands. “Um. I’d say it’s handmade. Interesting shape, too, but the photo has an unusual size, so that’s probably why.”

He looked at Sherlock who smiled at him.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “The picture’s been folded.

“Really?” Sally asked. “May I?” She gestured at the frame.

John didn’t appreciate her intrusion but shrugged and handed her the frame. Sally took the photo out of it and unfolded it. John risked a glance at Sherlock who looked at her with a blank face. Only the tight set of his shoulders told John he was uneasy or irritated. Possibly both.

“This woman here looks like our victim, Elizabeth Craig,” Sally said and handed the photo to John. Just out of the frame, Summers’ mother was embracing a young woman with familiar features.

“That’s because it _is_ the victim,” Sherlock said impatiently. Sally sent him a dirty look. “Now, why is this photo so important that they proudly display it — in a custom made frame, no less — even though they clearly don’t like the whole of it?”

“Maybe he doesn’t have many photos with his mother,” Donovan said. Both Sherlock and John looked at her with matching frowns. “What? Do you two get exclusive rights to this or something now?” she asked, irritated. “F— Holmes asked a question, I answered. And I’m pretty damn sure it’s the right answer.”

“So the mother’s important?” John asked. “Sherlock?” he prompted when his friend ignored him in favour of staring at Donovan.

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said. “Follow me.”

John put the photo down on the mantelpiece, took the gloves off and trailed after his friend. Sherlock stopped after a few steps and looked over his shoulder with lips pressed into a thin line. “Donovan,” he said through clenched teeth.

Sally narrowed her eyes at him but nodded sharply and followed them both. John shook his head not sure what just happened but not willing to ask.

Sherlock led them outside and to the police car guarded by the young constable. Sherlock opened the back door, ignoring the policeman’s protests.

 “Jones, go find Lestrade,” Sally told her colleague. He didn’t look happy about it but he complied.

“What’s this then?” Summers asked, annoyed, as if it was all just a major inconvenience to him.

“Why did you kill your sister, Mr Summers?” Sherlock asked.

“This again? I thought you told me—”

“Your mother always loved her better, didn’t she?” Summers’ jaw clicked shut with a force that made John wince in involuntary sympathy. “You couldn’t stand it, so you killed... Liz, was it? Even after your mother was long dead and gone. Just how petty is that?”

“You know nothing!” Summers snapped.

“Oh, I think I know a thing or two about irritating siblings.” John snorted, which earned him a little smile. “Amazingly enough, I managed not to kill my brother yet. I mean, yes, he nearly killed me a couple of times, by accident, mind, so I’d have a real reason to plot an elaborate scheme like— well, I was going to say like yours but it was rather poorly executed, so. Not really.”

John tried to hide his amusement but then he saw Donovan’s quirked brow and snorted again.

“So,” Sherlock continued. “Do you have a better excuse than a frankly ridiculous jealousy?”

“Shut up!” Summers yelled and only the handcuffs secured firmly around his wrists stopped him from punching Sherlock. Mrs Summers kept her determined silent act. “Just shut the fuck up! You have no idea how it was!”

John noticed Lestrade coming to stand next to Donovan. The DI surveyed the scene and crossed his arms with a sigh.

“Then enlighten me, please,” Sherlock said with derision though John could see an excited glint in his eyes.

Summers looked from Sherlock to Greg and back, then sighed.

“Fine. Whatever,” he murmured. John saw Sherlock’s lips twitch as Summers shifted in his seat. “We took care of my mum, Ems and I,” he gestured at his wife. “She was ill, you see. Weak heart, she had. But she was the kindest person. She lived with us, my mum. And Liz... Liz never really visited, so of course Mum would cling to every single miserable phone conversation they had, and they were never frequent enough, mind.” He took a deep breath. “And then, one day, she comes visit with this boyfriend of hers and a bag of weird magic shit, and she’s what? A perfect daughter and sister now? She certainly played the part.” He paused and looked at his wife for reassurance.

“Ben was even worse,” Mrs Summers spoke for the first time. “He started coming over even without Liz. Said he wanted to talk about the wedding.”

“And Mum was delighted,” her husband took over. “So much that she changed her entire will.”

“So this is about money?” Sherlock asked with distaste. “How disappointing.”

Both Mr and Mrs Summers glared at him.

“No,” Robert said with venom dripping from his voice. “I don’t care about the stupid will! Mum didn’t have that much to give anyway, so I suppose Ben was rather disappointed when we opened it.” He took a breath. “No, they, they...”

“They killed her,” Mrs Summers said.

John cursed and heard Lestrade do the same. Donovan inhaled sharply beside him and even Sherlock looked mildly surprised.

“How do you mean?” John asked.

“We’ve seen the files,” Greg said. “There was nothing there, no investigation.”

“Of course not,” Mr Summers scoffed. “They knew what they were doing, the bastards. Came one day, had a terrible fight in front of Mum.”

“She got upset,” Mrs Summers continued. “Really upset. And with her heart...” She clenched her jaw and looked down at her knees.

“We looked for her pills everywhere but couldn’t find them,” her husband continued quietly. “By the time the ambulance arrived, there was little that could be done.” He took a breath. “Found the pills, after. Under Mum’s bed. Ben said they must have fallen by accident but Mum was always so careful, always had them on her bedside table and a spare bottle in the bathroom. That one went missing too.”

“But they declared it an unfortunate accident and you had no evidence to prove otherwise,” Sherlock said in a sympathetic tone.

Mr Summers laughed with no trace of humour.

“And they got a whole grand for their troubles,” he said. “Bit more, if you count the jewellery.”

“So you decided to fake your death and exact revenge,” Sherlock said, flexing his fingers.

Summers looked at him defiantly.

“I loved my mother,” he said. “Tell me, whoever the bloody hell you are, what would _you_ do if someone killed a person you loved, huh? What?”

Sherlock glanced at John but when he noticed him staring, he quickly looked away and gritted his teeth. Not quickly enough though. John recognized the expression on his face. He looked exactly the same when he’d shot Magnussen.

 “Sher—” John started and came closer. Whatever he was about to say — and, frankly, he had no idea — Sherlock didn’t let him finish.

“You could have at least left your wife out of it,” he told Robert. “Keep her safe.”

“And what kind of monster do you think I am?” Summers asked angrily and Sherlock took a step back. “My sister was one thing. After what she did, I had no sympathies left for her. But faking my death and not telling Ems? That’s just cruel.” Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

“I’m—” Sherlock cleared his throat and closed a shaking hand into a fist. It didn’t really help and only made John even more worried. “I believe you have enough to go on, Inspector,” Sherlock said and walked away.

John exchanged looks with Lestrade and followed. When he reached the road, Sherlock was already getting into a cab with a haunted look on his face. The taxi drove away before John could stop it and he cursed.

He stared after the cab, deep in thought. He would be lying if he said that Summers’ words didn’t bring back some painful memories. Getting over Sherlock’s fake suicide wasn’t easy after all. But it was what it was and John came to accept it at some level — especially after he came so close to losing Sherlock again. After Mary, Sherlock seemed like the only thing that kept him grounded. So there was really no point in getting mad over the whole thing again, even if he still wished Sherlock had trusted him enough to let him know he was alive.

“Okay there?” Greg asked, coming to stand beside him.

“I don’t know,” John said with a frown. “He seemed upset but... why would he care?”

He winced, aware that he was probably being unfair to Sherlock, especially after what he’d seen of his mind palace. But it was still difficult to reconcile the vulnerable man abused by his own mind with the image of Sherlock as John knew him back at the beginning.

“You mean, why would he care that someone basically called him a monster for doing something he still feels bad about?”

“Yeah, fair enough,” John sighed. “It’s new though, isn’t it?”

Greg frowned at him.

“What is?”

“This... well, _something_. I don’t know. He never cared about other people’s opinions. Not even...” He took a deep breath. “Not even when they thought he was a fraud. I guess I just wonder what changed.” Lestrade gaped at him. “What?”

“You’re serious, mate?” Greg asked.

“Well—”

“Boss?” Donovan called.

“A minute!” He folded his arms and looked like a disapproving parent, which John didn’t appreciate. “Were you even there at your wedding?”

“Oi! Rude!”

“No, but... did you listen to him? _Really_ listen?”

“Well, I kind of sat right beside him, you know,” John bit out. “Being a groom and all that shit. I even helped him solve a case, saved a life.”

Greg blinked at him and huffed.

“Jesus, Molly was right,” he said and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“What are you talking about?” John was getting really tired of this conversation. He was also getting more restless and worried about Sherlock.

“Well, why do you think it bothered him to hear again that what he did to you was wrong?”

John pursed his lips as an echo of Moriarty’s sneering voice sounded in his ears, the stupid rhyme about the soldier leaving.

“Yeah, but... It’s different, isn’t it? Sherlock must know that,” he said.

“Does he?”

John remembered Sherlock’s defeated expression in his mind palace and then during the investigation. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He recalled every word Moriarty taunted Sherlock with the previous night and groaned.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, already looking for the best way to reach the main road. Without Sherlock’s cab summoning powers, he’d be stuck in front of the Summers’ house forever.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “Yeah, good luck, mate.”

John nodded and started running.

 

~*~

 

The flat was deserted when he arrived and John felt both relieved and disappointed. He wasn’t sure he could confront Sherlock about everything that happened and everything he knew. Or thought he knew. Sherlock’s absence was worrying though, so John sent him a series of texts to which Sherlock only replied ‘Busy. –SH’.

John sighed and settled in his armchair to wait for Sherlock. Unbidden, memories of the best man’s speech and Moriarty’s taunts invaded his mind and somehow lulled him to sleep. He was startled awake by a door being slammed. He groaned and massaged his strained neck.

Sherlock ran up the stairs and paused by the door.

“John,” he said by way of greeting and nodded sharply at him. He hid it well but there was a slight apprehension in his gaze. “Lestrade called. Summers confessed he killed his sister and brother-in-law, as well as the medium who refused to cooperate when he learned about Summers’ true intentions.”

John nodded absently and took a deep breath.

“Dinner in?” he asked.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched.

“It’s barely lunchtime,” he said, amused.

“Yeah, well,” John massaged his temples. “I’m still hungry, so...” He shrugged.

Sherlock took his coat off, his eyes focused firmly on John. He didn’t say anything for a long time and John hoped he wasn’t going to make things difficult.

“I’ll order something,” Sherlock said eventually and John let out a sigh of relief. “Fish and chips alright?” he asked and went into the kitchen.

“Yeah. Cheers, mate,” John said and winced at the word. It never quite fit and now it left a bad taste on his tongue.

He heard Sherlock’s voice placing the order and followed him to the kitchen. He put the kettle on and started looking for mugs, not for the first time a little thrown by the familiarity of it all. He had it with Mary once, too, though now it seemed like an age had passed since then.

“John,” Sherlock’s gentle voice interrupted his grim thoughts. Sherlock had his hand curled around John’s fingers that were gripping Sherlock’s mug too tightly. John loosened his grip and Sherlock’s hand retreated. John tried not to feel too disappointed. “You left it upstairs,” Sherlock said and put John’s mug on the counter next to his own.

John blinked at it quickly and looked at Sherlock. There was a soft smile gracing his friend’s lips and again John felt the urge to kiss him. Something must have shown on his face because Sherlock immediately put on his usual mask and cleared his throat.

“I’ll be in the living room,” he said and disappeared.

John sighed. Talking about his feelings was never his strong suit and he had hours of therapy to prove it. Talking about them with Sherlock could end in an open war. Or an epic sulk. Either way, it wasn’t going to be easy. He made them both tea and stepped into the living room.

Sherlock started playing his violin, so John left the tea for him on the coffee table and sat in his armchair to listen. The melody was soft, with a melancholic feeling to it and John found himself rehearsing possible openings to the conversation they were about to have. Given their combined emotional fluency, he should have probably organized a fake fire alarm or a bomb alert, or possibly stage a kidnapping in a room with moving walls and rising water.

The violin picked up suddenly, making John jump and spill his tea all over himself.

“Shit!” He put the mug on the side table, jumped out of the chair and tugged at his soiled jumper. It was one of his favourites. “Bloody hell!”

“John?” The violin screeched to a stop and Sherlock turned to face him. His eyebrows went high when he saw the state John got himself into.

“I’m okay,” John said. “Fine, just... Shit. Be right back.”

John ran up to his room to change. He left the jumper on the bed, hoping it could be rescued. Maybe he could ask Mrs Hudson for some advice. He definitely wasn’t going to ask Sherlock, unless he wanted to spend a week doing damage control. Which he didn’t.

He changed and was about to leave when he saw the strange amulet still lying on his bedside table. He hesitated for a moment and then took it. If nothing else, it could help start a conversation.

When John got back down, there was a fresh cup of tea waiting for him on the coffee table. He blinked at it, incredulous.

“Sherlock?” he called.

A click of the front door answered him and after a few seconds Sherlock appeared in the living room with their takeaway. He raised an eyebrow at John.

“You were hungry?” He dumped the bags on the coffee table and started unpacking them.

“Um... yeah, sure,” John said, not moving from his spot. “This is the second time you made me tea today.”

Sherlock froze with one hand on a tray of chips. It began to shake slightly and Sherlock quickly put the tray down. He raised his head and looked at John with badly hidden apprehension.

“Yes,” he said and cleared his throat. “Your point?”

John refused to avert his gaze and licked his lips.

“I think maybe we should talk,” he said.

“We _are_ talking.” Sherlock frowned. “Didn’t you want tea?”

“That’s not... right, okay... um...”

Without a better idea, he finally came closer and sat on the sofa. Sherlock glanced down at him and joined him after a moment of hesitation.

They ate in silence. John tried to find a way to start the conversation but nothing he came up with felt right. Finally, he decided on a safer option.

“What do you know about amulets?” he asked, wiping his hands and sitting back on the sofa.

Sherlock huffed.

“ _That’s_ what you wanted to talk about? Amulets?”

“Just...” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just answer?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and stared at John for a moment before his gaze turned a little unfocused. He shook his head.

“Nothing of import apart from superstitious drivel,” he said. “There might be something in my mind palace—”

“No!” John protested at once. Sherlock frowned at him. “No, don’t go there.” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John was faster. “I know I asked but... just... whatever you do, don’t go to your mind palace.”

“Why?” Sherlock looked at him both confused and suspicious.

John took a deep breath and braced himself.

“Because it’s not a safe place,” John said.

“How would _you_ know?” Sherlock asked sharply and John gritted his teeth. How indeed. “You sent me there enough times yourself.”

“And I am truly sorry for that,” John said. He reached for the amulet he got at High Spirits and left it in front of Sherlock on the coffee table. Sherlock blinked at it and took it for examination. “A woman gave this to me when we were leaving the crime scene yesterday. Told me it would help with the ghosts that haunt me.”

Sherlock flinched and immediately tried to cover it by shrugging.

“Really, John? I wouldn’t have taken you for a superstitious type,” he sneered.

“Yeah, well, she was blocking my way so it was either take the bloody thing or look for the next cab because you sure as hell wouldn’t wait for me.” Sherlock started protesting but John raised a hand to silence him. “Not my point. And I didn’t think it would work, genius, but now I...”

He stopped himself and flexed his fingers. This conversation wasn’t really going in the right direction and he didn’t know how to direct it there without pushing Sherlock away.

“Now you what?” Sherlock asked softly. “Do you feel better?”

John raised his eyebrows at him, surprised.

“Just like that?” he asked. “I suggest something insane and now you think it’s possible?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

“Well, we did see a gigantic hound from hell once,” he said and John snorted. “So I’m willing to believe that there is something in this amulet that can cause a mood change.” He sniffed it. “Some mild odourless antidepressant maybe. Released at the touch or possibly in room temperature. That would be rather clever.”

John smiled fondly at him. Always the scientist. Sherlock’s inquisitive mind was a thing of beauty.

“Yeah,” he said and cleared his throat, his stomach fluttering with nervous energy. “The thing is though, it might have transported me into your mind palace.”

Sherlock froze and then looked at him sharply.

“That’s not possible,” he said.

“There was a time when you thought a red-eyed glowing monster was merely improbable,” John reminded him.

“Yes, but my mind palace exists only in my mind. It’s not a physical place, there are no drugs involved that we know of, so how could you have been there?” Sherlock asked. “And it wasn’t glowing,” he muttered.

John looked at Sherlock, searching. There was certainly disbelief in those clever eyes but also a flicker of fear. Sherlock folded his fingers around the amulet and hid it in his fist that _wouldn’t stop shaking_.

“Look,” John started again, turning more fully in Sherlock’s direction. He wanted to reach out and stop the shaking but didn’t think Sherlock would appreciate it. “I know it sounds crazy. Frankly, I still can’t quite believe it myself. But that’s why I need you to tell me.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s just like you said, a... drug of some kind to convince naïve clients that it works. But. What if it’s not? I need to know, Sherlock. Even if all this turns out to be some crazy hallucination. I need to know.”

There were too many things between them already that still felt unresolved. A visit to Sherlock’s mind palace made him very aware of that fact. They left too many things unspoken or unacknowledged, and it was about time that changed.

They looked at each other for a long moment that seemed last for hours. Finally, something shifted in Sherlock’s expression and he nodded.

“It should be easy to determine,” he said and put the amulet on the coffee table. “I know how my mind palace looks like. I also know what I did in there last night, so it should be sufficient to compare notes.”

John thought about it and nodded.

“One thing though, Sherlock,” he said. “You can’t lie to me about this.” He looked at him pointedly. “If, by some strange... twist of fate or whatever... if it really happened, you can’t tell me it didn’t.” It’s too important, he wanted to say but instead tried to transmit the message looking into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock hesitated but eventually nodded.

“So we’re clear about this?” John asked.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Now get on with it.”

John’s mouth twitched despite the gravity of the situation.

“So, how do we do this?”

“Well, you claim you’ve seen my mind palace so why don’t you describe the throne room for me?” Sherlock asked brusquely. The tremor in his hand grew more pronounced and he flexed it into a fist again.

John frowned at him.

“I didn’t see any,” he said and Sherlock hummed. “You do have some sort of a dungeon, I guess, but I didn’t see any throne. Though, granted, I didn’t check _every_ room in there.”

Sherlock tensed even more.

“A dungeon?” he asked.

“Well, sort of, yeah, but I’d rather not go into detail about this. Sort of traumatic. Slightly more than the corridors.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched but he covered it with a dramatic sigh.

“What about the corridors?” he asked.

“They’re from Roland Kerr’s College,” John said and didn’t miss Sherlock’s surprised flinch.

“You’re sure?”

“Believe me, I’d know,” John murmured. “Looked for you long enough that night with the cabbie. Wrong building, remember?”

“But...” Sherlock said and didn’t seem to know how to finish, so he just gaped at John. Great, _now_ he rendered Sherlock speechless?

“When I first saw you there,” John continued gently, pretty sure now that he really did visit Sherlock’s mind palace, “you asked me how I got out.”

Sherlock’s face did a complicated thing; a myriad of emotions passed through it almost at the same time until it settled on resignation. He let out a small sigh that sounded suspiciously like John’s name.

He didn’t say anything though, so John continued.

“You solved the case and... and then we played with Redbeard.” Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled loudly. “So I guess... what I’m asking is... was that real?”

Sherlock appeared to be fighting with himself and John knew he was tempted to deny all of it. Even if he tried, there was no way John would believe him now, after what he just witnessed. He would still appreciate some honesty.

Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John.

“Yes,” he breathed. Then he blinked and looked down. “John, I—”

“There was something Moriarty said. In your palace,” John interrupted. Sherlock visibly tensed beside him but John soldiered on. “About how you feel. About me.” He wished Sherlock would just look at him again so he could see his expression. “Is that—”

“Yes,” Sherlock said and looked back at John who was more taken aback by the actual admission than he thought he would and all he could do was stare. Sherlock looked vulnerable again, as he did in his mind palace. “What you heard, that was... yes.”

John blinked at him, his heart beating furiously.

“Oh my God,” he said when he finally found his voice.

It was somehow the wrong thing to say. Sherlock’s face closed off immediately and he put more distance between them. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, if we could just forget about it and get back to this fascinating amulet—”

John managed to shook himself out of shock. He crossed the space between them and kissed Sherlock firmly on the lips. Sherlock stopped talking but didn’t react in any other way, so John made himself break the kiss, afraid he still somehow managed to misinterpret things. But Sherlock was merely shocked into stillness, the expression on his face reminiscent of the one he had after John asked him to be his best man.

John huffed and got up to search for some whiskey, giving Sherlock time to adjust. He hoped his friend didn’t lose himself in his mind palace this time (and they really needed to talk about that as well).

There was a loud inhale from the sofa just after John managed to locate the whiskey. He grabbed the bottle and two glasses, and went back to the living room.

“Here,” he said, pouring whiskey for Sherlock who watched him with incredulous eyes. Sherlock’s hands were shaking badly when he took the glass from John.

Sherlock took a large sip and winced. His eyes were glued to John as he sat down beside him on the sofa with his own glass. Sherlock tried to say something several times but nothing came out of his open mouth. He traced his lips with a shaking finger.

“John,” he breathed, searching John’s face for answers.

John smiled at him fondly and sipped at his own whiskey.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, lightly gripping Sherlock’s knee. It felt so natural that John couldn’t understand why it took him so long to recognize what he felt for Sherlock for what it was. “Sorry for being an idiot and not seeing it earlier.” Sherlock nodded sharply in recognition and John smiled. “Can I kiss you again?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered and this time, when their lips touched, he only stayed still for a second before reciprocating, and it was glorious.

They ended up curled on the sofa, the whiskey abandoned in favour of a tight, comfortable embrace. Sherlock started drawing lazy circles on John’s back and John lifted his head from where it rested on Sherlock’s chest to look at his friend. Sherlock seemed content if not genuinely happy and John beamed at him.

“You need to tell me. later,” he said, playing with Sherlock’s hair. “About the other stuff. Why you jumped. What happened to you when you were gone.” Sherlock hummed in agreement and tightened his hold on John. “And we’re rearranging your mind palace.”

Sherlock’s soft laugh made John feel lighter than he had in months. 

 


End file.
